Storm and Hurricane
by Queen-of-stupidity
Summary: He is a storm and you are a hurricane and that's what it comes down to.


Warnings: some mature content

It starts with a wink. A flirtatious one, sent to that Slytherin boy in the corner, the one who is friends with Draco Malfoy. Secretly, you had a crush on Draco in first year, but when you saw what he did, no, _does_ to Harry, you were put off by those Slytherin boys (for the time being).

It's a saying your mother taught you, and Padma, when you were little, after a fight with your father, looking wistfully out of the window, she said that bad boys will always break your heart. But he, _Blaise_, is different, you hope, he is _special_.

It escalates into kissing, rash, heated snogging in empty classrooms late at night. You know it will never work out, he is just using you because you are there, and you are willing, but you dare to dream. You are complete opposites, you think to yourself, as he drags his hands through your hair, while furiously kissing your neck.

That little thought goes away soon enough.

He doesn't believe in love. He told you that the first time you kissed. Not apologetic, not sorry, but he said it in that usual blunt manner, cold, uncaring. Even his touch is icy, while yours is warm, warm, _burning_.

You believe passionately in love. You believe in hearts and flowers and nights by the fireplace, snuggled against each other, in Leonardo DiCaprio and Mariah Carey.

You get none of that with Blaise, (although you both have a striking resemblance to Romeo and Juliet) but, by then, you don't particularly care.

Sometimes, occasionally, you think you might love him. His love is stinging, hurting, _addicting_ but it can't keep you from smiling, and whispering _Parvati_ _Zabini_ into your pillow at night.

You like to smile. It's nice, it feels nice, to grin and beam at people, to throw your head back in the air and laugh at something funny. But Blaise, you've seen him smile, what, _twice_? That small, thin upturning of the lips when he sees you in the classroom, waiting for him, as he rakes his eyes hungrily over your body doesn't count, you decide.

If Blaise laughed, you'd need convincing that the fabric of the universe hadn't been ripped apart, shattered into a million pieces, like your heart when he isn't around.

Stars. You love them. You love astronomy, astronomy and divination, staring at the stars, lost in that city of twinkling lights swept up in the blue of the sky. When you meet at the astronomy tower, you point out the stars to Blaise. He makes some usual sarcastic comment, then proceeds with kissing you, like he always does.

You hate to read. Reading is boring, boring, when you could be doing something, anything outside, enjoying nature, drinking in the bright, glowing sun. Blaise loves to read, you know that, from the way he refuses to meet in the library (it is like his church, his sacred temple),the way he is constantly quoting Shakespeare, the way, that when you stare into his eyes, there is a glassy, poetic mist to them. He reads muggle books, even though his mother is one of those Purebloods, the ones that prohibits any muggle activity whatsoever and would probably kill him if she found out.

Sometimes you wonder what would happen if she met you.

He reads Shakespeare and Dickens, and plenty of others you can't name for the life of you, but you remember his words, the words he has read from his books, the words he says to you. He calls you his 'Lady of Shalott,' and you whisper back 'I am half-sick of shadows'.

Blaise likes the dark. It's half of the reason you meet up at night, stay up until 2.00 am. Sometimes, you sit there in the creeping blackness, before his lust takes over and you end up in his bed again, and again, and again. He likes routine, organisation, while you are impulsive, reckless, _out of control_. Occasionally he murmurs that he should have been in Gryffindor, and you should have been in Slytherin, but you know that it isn't true.

He's arrogant, and you think it comes off the most around you, he likes to whisper things in your ear about himself, things that you hardly believe are true, but probably are, knowing Blaise Zabini.

He smells like butternut squash soup, you say decidedly, one night. He tells you that you smell like Juniper berries, bitter and spicy. You laugh and tell him to not be so articulate, so elegant with his words and he says he can't help it, that you're just too beautiful. He's beautiful too, in his own way, with his high cheekbones and his dark lashes that cover his misty eyes, the ones that dance with shadows when he is around you.

He is a storm, and you are a hurricane and that's what it comes down to. Even in seventh year, you refuse to let him go, refuse to accept that he is dark, that he is fighting for the wrong side, while you are fighting for Harry, for Dumbledore, for good.

You spend the night with him before his trial. The night is like all the others, trembling hands, lipstick-stained sheets and long since-discarded clothes. You wake up late in the morning, noon, maybe, and he is gone.

You don't care.

You know that this time, he'll come back.

* * *

Kay so, the guidelines said no you-based fics but I assumed that was just like choose your own adventure? If I'm in the wromg I'll take it down.

I don't own:

Harry Potter (belongs to JKR)

Shakespeare

Charles Dickens

The Lady Of Shalott (Alfred Tennyson)

Mariah Carey

Leonardo DiCaprio

Virtual hug to fa-al who reviewed my other story - Daydream Believer and to Flubbery Flobberworms for reviewing Smoke and Ash


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